


The Magnus Manor

by themothman



Series: The Magnus Manor [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Communication, DnD races, Domestic, F/F, F/M, Gen, High Fantasy, M/M, Magic, Marriage, Slow Burn, Swords, Trans Martin Blackwood, and lack of communication tbh, cannon typical spooks, its a comedy if it ends in marriage, what time period is this in? ill never tell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:02:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29320581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themothman/pseuds/themothman
Summary: Martin blackwood sat on the small wooden bench, just a few doors down from where he and his mother live..ed. Lived. It wasn't the early morning cold that bothered him, it would be earlier and colder when he usually walked through the village to his morning shift at the bakery, but there was a certain unidentifiable cold that seeped down to his bones. He would have called it fear if he wasn’t absolutely sure that he had nothing to be scared off past the point of starting a new job, moving to a different place. He just… had to think about what was actually happening. Closing his eyes and letting out a cloud of icy breath he picked the situation apart. He had been offered someone to pick him up and take him to his new place of work, by his new employer, Elias Bouchard, current occupier (and owner, he assumed) of the Magnus Manor. The Magnus Manor was a large house, as Manors tended to be, but it wasn’t only built to be the home of the Magnus family.The original owner, from what he knew about, was interested in exploring- no collecting- people's experiences of the supernatural and esoteric
Relationships: Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James/Tim Stoker
Series: The Magnus Manor [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2191068
Comments: 7
Kudos: 13





	1. A Delivery to Magnus Manor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW in this chapter for the typical martins mum situation- nothing major, just a brief mention

Martin blackwood sat on the small wooden bench, just a few doors down from where he and his mother live..ed. Lived. It wasn't the early morning cold that bothered him, it would be earlier and colder when he usually walked through the village to his morning shift at the bakery, but there was a certain unidentifiable cold that seeped down to his bones. He would have called it  _ fear _ if he wasn’t absolutely sure that he had nothing to be scared off past the point of starting a new job, moving to a different place. He just… had to think about what was actually happening. Closing his eyes and letting out a cloud of icy breath he picked the situation apart. He had been offered someone to pick him up and take him to his new place of work, by his new employer, Elias Bouchard, current occupier (and owner, he assumed) of the Magnus Manor. The Magnus Manor was a large house, as Manors tended to be, but it wasn’t only built to be the home of the Magnus family. 

The original owner, from what he knew about, was interested in exploring- no collecting- people's experiences of the  _ supernatural and esoteric _ . Infact, for a lot of the time the institute existed the majority of the place was taken up by a research institute, and most of the people who worked there worked specifically in the research part. Martin didn't quite know how to feel about that. Magic was undeniably real, even if Martin never quite got the hang of it himself. He had no real talent in that area, if he was being honest. But the supernatural… the ‘spooky stuff’. Sure it- could be real? He wouldn't really know, and neither did he think that he would ever find out. It seemed odd to even try to collect that stuff, but eccentric rich people do odd things, and plus he was, in no way, working for the research institute within the manor. Just has he never had the ability to do magic, he never went to the sort of institution that would give him the qualifications that would let him work there. And to be honest, he didn’t think that he would want to. He was taking over the roll of the kitchens, and a lot of the cleaning. Pretty much by himself, though he was told that that probably wouldn't be too hard. He’d been told in recent years there had been a decline in people working there, with only 7 people, other than himself working and he supposed… living there. Bouchard, his secretary, three people in the archives, and two security officers. 

The sounds of a carriage stole his attention as it grew closer, pulling him out of his train of thought. That was strange to say the least, normally he would be able to hear a carriage from much further away. The cobbled roads that the small village had were never really used often, apart from the odd trading wagon that would come to and away from the village, and so they were never taken care of all that well. He did suppose that he had been caught up in his own head, so he didn’t think on it too much as he smoothed down his trousers and pulled his thick brown woolen cloak around him tighter to stave off the early morning cold.

“Mr. Blackwood?” one voice started “We’re here to deliver you to Mr Bouchard.” another voice finished. Their accents seem exaggerated, but he couldn’t tell what the accents were… so he supposed he couldn’t judge that. They were almost identical, he noticed, as he was approached by them. They were… half orc, maybe? Tall and muscular, with broad shoulders and hoods mostly covering their face, and what he could see wasn’t all that remarkable. Or, Martin's eyes just wouldn’t focus on them properly at least. 

“Are you coming” one of them said, the one to the left. More of a statement than a question

Martin nodded, and began to walk closer to them, opening his mouth to say “sorry-'' before he was grabbed by the shoulders and hips by the men and lifted into the cart amidst the parcels and sacks and crates. They didn’t seem to be especially rough or or aggressive with the lift, but neither did they seem to be trying to help him up out of any kindness. Just another parcel, Martin thought, as he shuffled to find any comfort between the deliveries. “Who- what's your- who are you?” Martin asked, as he pushed a sack containing something smooth and hard out of the way so he could sit down on the rough wooden bench that he had spotted in the wagon. His back was now facing the strangers

“He's Breekon.” one voice said, as the wagon began to move. “And he’s Hope” the other voice said. Martin felt a strange relief that these things-  _ people-  _ had names. Even as the feeling of their hands settled into his mind. They didn't feel quite right, but that must have been because of the gloves. “And we’re here to deliver you to Elias Bouchard” they repeated, in unison. Oh, he really wished he’d managed to get a cup of tea before he left. He rubbed familiar circles in the hem of his cape, and closed his eyes for a second to calm down.

“... what do you think, son?” one of the men finished, presumably finishing a question that Martin had never heard the start of. 

“I'm sorry, what?” he murmured, craning his neck to look at the two.

“Breekon was saying, it’s a good job that we came for you this early” presumably hope said, with a hint of laughter in his voice. “The woods tend to get nasty at night” Breekon supplemented, the same undertones in his voice, masked by that accent that Martin was now sure to be over exaggerated. He nodded. He knew not to go into the forest at night there were probably wolves in there, it was one of the things his mother had told him when he was young. 

As soon as he thought of his mother he saw the place he put here- where she had been asked to be. The small cottage with the thatched roof, pebbles all stuck to the side (he could never actually remember the name of that particular building technique), and flowers so carefully planted in the front garden and window boxes. It looked similar to most of the other cottages in the small village, including the one that Martin recently vacated. It was just larger. Not much taller really, only two floors and plenty of the others also had that. It was longer, three or four individual houses stuck together to accommodate the residents. It was the only care home for miles, and he supposed he was lucky that such a small place even had one- although it was an aging village so it probably needed it. Oh gosh, that was just an awful thing to think… Martin shuffled in his seat, and leaned forward to see if he could see his mother through her window. It was a futile effort, because the cart quickly turned the corner into the forest.

Martin lurched forward a little bit, grabbing the side of the cart so that he didn’t fall out. He swore that if that happened again he would definitely get splinters. He also knows that it will almost definitely happen again.

The woods were thick, and the canopy casted dark shadows on the floor, where a sparse scattering of bright flowers broke up the monotonous tones of dark green and decaying brown wood. The ‘whispering woods’ they had called it, and he understood why. The way that the trees rustled overhead made it seem like they were talking, just slightly too far away for you to make out what they were saying. It didn’t seem a hostile place in the middle of the day though, the rustling broken up by soft birdsong and the whistle of a person who had decided to enjoy their Sunday walking through the woods. Martin would do that sometimes- spend his one day off under the trees of the woods, writing poetry and returning by 4pm sharp to make food for his mother and himself… and more recently just himself.

The two men were now chatting between themselves, laughing in coarse, crude bursts that were so close to being the same, yet not quite. The laughs didn't meld together in any sort of harmony, despite their closeness. Instead they clashed, creating a disjointed sickly noise.

His eyes glanced over the pile of cargo that he was sitting within. Most of the things were small- no more than the size of two of Martin’s hands put together, (To be fair, if Martin was being honest with himself his hands were larger than the average persons). Some were larger, though there were fewer of those. Three of them were about Martin’s size, and he really didn't want to think about what might be contained in those smooth wooden boxes. These two were delivery men, that much obvious, but he didn’t know what they were delivering because everything was covered in some sort of way. Which made sense, really, no delivery driver he knew kept all of the stuff out in the open. Even the local potato farmer put the potatoes in sacks rather than just pouring potatoes into the cart. Martin supposed that most of these were not potatoes. Some were oddly smooth and hard beneath the rough sacks they were kept in, like the one he had moved to sit on this chair. It now sat on his lap, oddly light for its size. Martin’s hands went to the rope that was tied around the top of it, before the barking laughter of the two men behind him brought him back to his senses and he placed it down on the floor. There was his own small suitcase, too, that he had all but forgotten about amongst the various things, and also a small basket he had packed for lunch.

He had packed light; a few suitable shirts that hadn't been darned too many times, his only other good pair of trousers, his one jacket (a little to small, and why he much preferred to wear a cloak most of the time), some night clothes, a blanket that he had sewn himself and his notebook. He hoped he would be able to get a quill when he got to the manor. He was quite glad he’d been able to pack lightly, but it was sad to see that his worn leather suitcase, instead of buckling, was dipping slightly, concaving into the empty space. The basket he had packed for lunch however was definitely not, the buckle barely contained the sandwiches and small buns that he had packed, all homemade of course. He hadn’t done it all for himself, he had meant to share with whoever was taking him, assuming that whoever would be people who worked at the manor- his new colleges. It, he thought, would be an excellent way to show off his cooking skills, prove that he was worthy of the position. Judging by the sun in the middle of the sky above the canopy of trees, it was around midday, and he didn't want to be rude. Even if these men were definitely not people he wanted to impress, and nor did he think he would be working with them...

“Breekon, hope, would you like some lunch…?”   


* * *

  


It took less time than Martin thought to get him to the manor. Well, as long as he thought but the hours slipped away faster. Breekon and Hope had taken the food they were offered and Martin had felt a strange relief that they ate- though he couldn't say why. Surely it was just relief that they had enjoyed the food that he had worked hard on… and then the cart continued to roll on, making no more stops as it trundled along the pathways of the whispering woods. Martin was the first delivery of the day. The thought elicited a dry chuckle from him. The road wasn't so much a road, more of a patch where the wagons had rolled across it enough to compact the grass and dirt. That had meant a considerable jostling of the packages, but neither them or him had been thrown off the back of the wagon so that, he thought, was an upside at least. No splinters too. And, just to make things better, they had arrived at the cusp of darkness

The manor was immense in front of him, made with large stone bricks, with small carvings that he was a little bit too far away to see the shape off. A large stone pathway greeted his feet as Breekon and Hope lifted him out of the cart in a similar way to how they put him in. Hope, he thought, handed his light suitcase to him, and who he believed was Breekon handed over the empty basket. They began to march him towards the huge dark wooden door, one with a hand gripping each shoulder as they walked, practically carrying him up the ornate stone stares.

“Please- I can walk myself,” Martin said, moving his shoulders to get them to let go of him. They gripped his cloak harder and began to walk a little faster.

“We haven't made our delivery yet, Mr Blackwood” Hope said, knocking firmly on the door. “Mr Boushard likes to have his packages delivered right to his door,” Breekon finished. And they both let go as the door swung open.

“Ah, Mr Blackwood” the man at the door said. Martin shivered. His name seemed to slip like slime out of the man's lips, landing on the floor heavy and thick. It had been odd and strangely dry when it came from the delivery drivers, but nothing as bad as this. The elf in front of him was tall and rail thin, wearing what looked to be a crisp black cloak, embroidered at the breast with a small green eye and covering an equally crisp gray suit. He regarded Martin with cold gray eyes, a small flame of judgement hidden behind the smarmy bureaucracy that seemed to ooze out of him in every direction. His nose was thin and pointed, his cheekbones sharp in a way that people could consider quite objectively handsome, if it wasn’t offset by the aforementioned smarminess. His hair was dark, slicked back and short, unlike almost every elf he had ever seen, not that he could say he had seen many elves, his village was mainly a human settlement with a few halflings in the mix. 

“I- uh- hello?”

“I am Elias Bouchard.” The man said sharply, eyebrow raised and clearly not pleased with his stuttering “Due to the position of your employment in this… institution as a housekeeper, you should refer to me as Mr Bouchard, though you may hear the archival staff call me otherwise. Please, follow me to the parlour, I have assembled the staff, and it is an inconvenience for things to halt for too long even after hours. So we must be quick”. Mr Bouchard began to walk, not even looking behind him and assuming that he was following. Which he was, taking a moment to look behind him to confirm that yep, the two strange men who took him here were still good. No evidence of them even being there apart from the bruises that were surely growing on his shoulders.

The man- Mr Bouchard- smiled. “We have quite an important night it seems, what with you and my announcement?”

“What announcement sir- if- if i may ask?” Martin asked, attempting to be polite. This was his new employer, afterall.

“Well, it wouldn’t be much of an announcement at all if I told my staff in dribs and drabs” Elias- Mr Bouchard said, the tips of his mouth, already in that sly smirk, raising ever so slightly. He began to walk faster, the clicking noise of his black and white half shoes getting a little louder. 

Martin took that as the end of that conversation, and began to look around at the house he had just agreed to clean 

The interior was decorated lavishly, and in the same manner that it had been when it was first built Martin guessed, though he was no expert on historical interior design. It was covered in a fine layer of dust, pretty much everywhere apart from where people walked often. Intricate patterns were carved into almost every available wooden surface that was meant to be looked at- the bookshelves that intermittently littered the hallway, the frames of the paintings of, mostly, stuffy looking elvish men. They all had these intricate patterns, which they were walking too fast for him to properly look at. He did know, however, that they would be an absolute disaster to clean. Martin glanced around, and when he didn't see his employer looking at him, he dared to drag a finger across the banister of a small staircase that they passed by. He didn’t think it was the main one, because it looked disused, and small and cramped, nowhere near as lavish or ornate as the main stairs must be. And, there were no small intricate carvings along its banister

“Yes. i assume you will want to take care of the dust as soon as possible” Mr Bouchard nodded, the noise of his highly polished shoes tapping against the floor coming to an abrupt stop. Martin quickly shoved his hand in the pocket of his cloak, a red flush of embarrassment creeping onto his cheek when he noticed he’d been caught, though he didn’t know what he had been doing was especially bad. “These are the steps you will use, they lead to the housekeepers room and the cleaning supplies. You have to understand Martin, we haven’t had a housekeeper for a very long time, and most of us are much too busy to  _ clean _ often.” He said the word as if it felt like dirt in his mouth, as if it was beneath him. Which he supposed it was. “The kitchen is through the door behind them”

Martin nodded his head as they continued to walk, the sound of the shoes hitting wood with clear clarity. 

“Thank you- for this opportunity Mr Bouchard” he forced the words out of his mouth, slowly, to make sure that he didn't know what he was actually feeling. At this point, it was mainly intimidation that his bones steeped in. 

“It's no problem Mr Blackwood. Martin. I'm sure you will fit right in” he said with a sly smile as they stopped again at another great dark wooden door. An ornate pattern of eyes on the handle and one large eye in the middle of the door. Martin shuddered, that was clearly designed by someone who wouldn’t have to clean it.   


“I will introduce you to the rest of my staff, and my  _ dear fiancé  _ who so kindly decided to join us for the day, and possibly the night” Mr Bouchard waited for Martins reaction, with that damned smirk that appeared to be a permanent fixture on his face, and Martin consciously and badly squashed for a small surprised look on his face. A fiancé was never mentioned, and it would be just one person to cook for. Though by the tone of Mr Bouchard's voice told Martin that the… whoever it was, didn’t stay very often. And that Mr Bouchard possibly hated him.

Mr Bouchard continued to talk, once Martin’s reactions had been noted. “I will allow you until 11pm to mingle with my staff and get to know the house, as lights out is always at 11:30pm sharp, with the exception of the guard house, the archives and of course my office. It is 6:15 at the moment, so that should be more than long enough. I have made a list of your duties and placed it on the desk in your room and an alternative list for when Peter- Captain Lucas is here” and before Martin had a chance to respond, the door was slung open to show a room full of people. Mr Bouchard walked in and sat in a large plush armchair, positioned next to another where a half giant sat- frost, Martin thought. He was rough looking, with a curly white beard and an expensive looking, yet worn, woolen jumper and cotton trouser combo. It sort of looked like if your grandpa was rich and also a sea captain. The two older men began a quiet conversation. Mr Bouchard lit a cigar. After a moment he waved for Martin to sit down.

Martin did sit down, in one of the least expensive chairs he could see- it was still very expensive ofcourse, but it looked a little older than the rest. Threadbare and a little wobbly. Next to him was a muscular dragonborn woman, who held an almost comically small cup of strong coffee in one clawed hand. “Oh, Martin is it?” she cracked a small smile, offering her free hand over to shake, which Martin did. “My names Basira Hussain, me and Alice- Daisy- Tonner work security”. She said, pointing to a Dwarven woman who wore her hair long and curly, and had a smattering of stubble just visible on her dark skin. A few scars laced across her face, but she wore them well.

“And- the others?” Martin asked, taking his hand out of his cloak pocket- which he just realized he was wearing inside, clearly a breach of etiquette. But no one seemed to mind, so he kept it around him. It was comforting, he supposed 

“Elias has really not introduced any of us?” a tiefling man said, with winding horns and light red, verging on pink, skin. He fell down to sprawl over the two women. “Tim, by the way. And I suppose i’ll have to do big boss man’s job for him” 

“Boss man- small boss man- is Jonathon Sims, jonny boy, or if you're boring, Jon” he grinned as he was glared at by a small half elf man, who Martin assumed to be ‘jonny boy’. He had long dark brown hair, some of the roots going grey. It was pinned up into a messy bun, revealing the couple of piercings that he had in his slightly pointed ears. He was short- maybe 5’2 if Martin had to make a guess- and thin as a stick. Martin was fairly sure that if he blew too hard he would fall over. He wore an outfit that was fairly similar to Mr Bouchard's, except it was a softer looking material and was quite a bit more rumpled. A small flush of stubble graced his sharp jaw, barely noticeable because the browns were an almost identical match. His face was perhaps half a shade darker, or maybe it was the soft golden glow of the candle next to him that highlighted the stubble and gilded it with shimmering amber lighting. This man, Jon, seemed to carry the aesthetic qualities of a moody academic instructor, whose nights were too full of the desperate scramble to learn to do such a petty thing as sleep or relax. His eyes though… even though they hosted bags bigger than Martin’s suitcase. they drew him in, brilliant and shining and green. They looked curious and assessing, and beautiful.

Jonathan Sims was exactly Martin’s type.

“Martin? Marto? Mart-et stall” Tim's voice (and ridiculous laughter) broke through Martin’s thoughts before they could wander too far.

Daisy rolled her eyes a little at the pun, but Martin could see that the corners of her mouth tweaked up in amusement. Basira shared a glance and a raised eyebrow with someone across the room, and it seemed as if Jon was pointedly not joining in with the revelry, glancing nervously, over in the direction of Mr Bouchard.

“now, that was bad, even you have to admit that Stoker” A soft looking elvish woman said, a chuckle hidden under her ‘criticism’. She had soft blond hair that fell down her back, dark skin with an even complexion disrupted only by freckles. They were lighter than her skin, almost white. She was shorter than Martin, but like Martin she was soft, and round, but Martin thought she carried it better than him. “My names Sasha- Sasha James if we're using our full names, and the halfling right next to Elias- sorry, Mr Bouchard- is Rosie, the secretary. She's lovely”. The halfling, Rosie it seemed, was fairly small in all dimensions even for the halfling. Her hair was soft and gray, but not by age. She had it pinned into a bun and whips of hair still framed her face. She had  _ dimples _ . In Martin's opinion, she was fairly adorable. She waved and stood up, about to make her way up to the small congregation that had begun on the opposite side of the room to Mr Bouchard.

Mr Bouchard raised his finger, and a loud ringing noise started, bouncing against the walls. Great, magic. Of course Mr Bouchard knew magic

“Everyone! Thank you for coming here.”

“Not that we had a choice” Tim whispered, sitting up. He sat on the chair cross legged.

Rosie sat back in her chair next to Mr Bouchard, and the conversation quickly stopped. Basera placed her small cup on the side, and Daisy moved it so it was under a coaster after a quick look from Martin who would have to clean that. Coffee stains were hard to get out of wood.

“I see you have all made your acquaintance with our new house keeper, Martin Blackwood” he said, that smarmy smile increasing tenfold. “He will be making your meals and cleaning up your messes. And please try not to interrupt each other inside working hours” 

There was a small rustle of fabric as the almost silent communion nodded, only broken up by Tims forced chipper “sure boss!”

“And also, me and Captain Lucas have made a date for the wedding, and we expect you all to be there”, waving his hand as he nodded sternly. The other hand encompassed within the Captain’s.

The room seemed to go even more silent than it was before, and everyone rose the drink that had just appeared in their hand, before remembering how to be polite and murmuring dry congratulations towards Mr Bouchard and Captain Lucas. Martin wasn’t quite sure why everyone was being so… why everyone seemed so upset about the marriage of their boss and the Captain, and he wasn’t sure he even wanted to find out. In fact, mentally he vowed to keep himself out of trouble and not investigate at all. If he, coincidentally, found out. Perhaps from the sort of gossip one couldn't avoid when they had any co-workers at all. Then maybe he just wouldn’t mind. After all, he wouldn’t say that he wasn’t a curious person.

“You are now free to go. Except Rosie, we need to talk” Mr Bouchard said, and it was as if a spell was lifted

Everyone began to stand up, congregating into different groups. Basira said something to the others about going back to the guard house. Sasha whispered something to Tim that made him laugh, and also inspired a soft blush to deepen the red of his cheeks. They then proceeded to hurry out of the parlour. He didn’t know what was going on, but he had an idea and it made him smile a little. From what he had seen they seemed sweet. Martin saw Rosie talk to Mr Bouchard for a second, mumbling something including the words ‘office’ ‘bedroom’ and ‘sorry’, several times over. She left quickly, picking up some papers from the coffee table beside Mr Bouchard. He finally rose from his chair, taking off his cloak and folding it over his arm, and trying to think about where he was told his room was. Back across the hall and up the dusty staircase? He fiddled with the hem of his shirt as he thought, before hearing a soft cough behind him.

Jon stood behind him, hands in his pocket, and slouched slightly. “Would you like me to show you around?”


	2. The Grand Tour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Would you like me to show you around?”
> 
> The new housekeeper- Mr Blackwood, Jon thought his name was- jumped a little bit as Jon spoke. He wasn’t exactly sure why, he hadn’t exactly snuck up on him, but he had been told that he could be a lot quieter than the average person. A side effect of livi- working in the archives, he supposed.
> 
> The man wasn’t speaking, mouth open a little bit. Jon looked up at him- he was at least a foot taller than Jon, with sandy blonde hair that curled in a loose pattern. His face seemed dusted with pink and speckled with freckles and his features and frame were soft and round, and light. A perfect opposite to Jons pointy.. Ness. He was a quite objectively handsome person, but Jon gave that no mind. He was not here to date. 
> 
> “Mr blackwood, did you hear me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not really any content warnings here, apart from some not quite PG jokes near the end. Enjoy, and let me know if there is something I missed

“Would you like me to show you around?”

The new housekeeper- Mr Blackwood, Jon thought his name was- jumped a little bit as Jon spoke. He wasn’t exactly sure why, he hadn’t exactly snuck up on him, but he had been told that he could be a lot quieter than the average person. A side effect of livi- working in the archives, he supposed.

The man wasn’t speaking, mouth open a little bit. Jon looked up at him- he was at least a foot taller than Jon, with sandy blonde hair that curled in a loose pattern. His face seemed dusted with pink and speckled with freckles and his features and frame were soft and round, and light. A perfect opposite to Jons pointy.. Ness. He was a quite objectively handsome person, but Jon gave that no mind. He was not here to  _ date.  _

“Mr blackwood, did you hear me?” he said, starting to get annoyed at the silence. Jon did not like it when his questions were not answered, especially such a simple one.

“Oh- yes. That wou- did you just call me Mr Blackwood?” Mr Blackwood said, with a smile on his lips and his voice slowly creeping into a laugh.

“Well, that is your name isn't it?” Jon huffed and frowned to assure himself that Martin’s laugh wasn’t desperately attempting to tug his own lips into a smile. He already decided to keep this professional, not even friendly if he could so help it. He told himself that he had only offered to show him around because he knew it would increase efficiency if the poor man didn't keep getting lost in the grotesquely oversized place. It had nothing to do with the way that Martin's hair curled over one of his eyes, because Jon felt no desire to tuck it behind his ear. Even Jon had to admit that since the whole  _ Prentis incident  _ he had been even more absorbed in work. That was because he knew that he could not afford a distraction. Not even one wrapped in an oversized brown woolen jumper and awkwardly holding a folded up cloak.

“You can just call me Martin,” He smiled and offered his hand, the one with the cloak in, and then seemed to realize it was occupied and offered the other. If Jon was looking intently, he might have seen the dusting of pink on Martins cheek redden a little. But that was something that Jon would never admit to doing. “I mean- Mr bouchard and the- the- Breekon and Hope called me my last name, and it feels too formal and i guess we're coworkers” He continued, and then stopped short of rambling when Jon shook his hand.

“Martin, then” Jon moved his hand back into the pocket of his suit. He hadn’t technically had to wear his ‘meeting with important people’ uniform for this encounter, but some small part of him wanted to make a good impression. Most of his normal working clothes had seemed way too informal, but after seeing what Martin and Tim were wearing…

He didn’t blame Martin for not being the most crisply dressed, he had just travelled the whole day in the back of a delivery van. And the ‘soft young children's teacher’ appearance, with the crumpled shirt and what seemed to be a hand knitted (probably once lime green) sweater vest, did not look bad on him. Someone (someone who  _ wasn’t Jon)  _ may have thought it made him look almost adorable. Friendly. Approachable. 

Tim, however. Tim wore a shirt with the same sort of structure that Jon’s did, except it was looser and boxy. That, Jon wouldn't have minded. What he did mind was the bright flowers that adorned the garment in garish pinks, purples and reds, backed by a selection of green leaves and what appeared to be the hues of a watercolor sunset. It was bad enough when Tim wore it to the office on what he declared ‘dress down fridays’ but it was almost unbearable that he had decided to wear it when it was imperative that they made a good impression…

“... can i call you jon?” Martin finished a question that Jon hadn’t heard the start of. He hadn’t meant to let his mind wander.

“Yes, I don't see why not?” Jon again removed one of his hands from his pocket and raked it through his hair, freeing it from the flimsy ribbons that contained it. “I'm afraid I didn't quite catch what you were saying”

Martin pressed his hands against the door and pushed it open with a small creek. Jon wondered why he didn’t just use the handle, but he remembered how uncomfortable the intricate eyes pressing into your skin could feel when you weren’t used to it, so he decided not to comment. 

“Oh-!” another small laugh sounded, “I was just wondering how long you worked here?” Martin put his thick cape back around himself, and Jon shivered as he realized how cold these corridors were. Another thing he had mostly gotten used to he supposed. Or merely drove off with the chunky grey jumpers and cardigans that may as well have been his uniform while working in the archives.

After thinking for a moment, Jon directed them up a set of rarely used stairs, which seemed to have a clear fingerprint mark cared through the dust. He decided not to comment on that, when Martin gave it a guilty looking glance “I’ve been working here about 13 years. Ten in the library as a researcher and 3 as head archivist. Since Ms Robinson passed”

“Oh wow- that's a while… Is it a good place to work?” Martin followed behind him as they ascended the stairs, his voice calling up to Jon softly.

“Our work is hard, the late Ms Robinson left the archives rather disorganized. I suppose that yours will be in an entirely different way.” Jon glanced at the eye motifs that were engraved even in the far less extravagant doors of what would once have been the servants quarters of the far to large manor. It seemed odd that such a plain entrance would look like this. It seemed far too over the top, particularly when the door was so hidden away. “Especially with all of these… decorations around the place”

Jon allowed himself a small twitch of a smile as Martin chuckled uneasily. He glanced over as he saw Martin step by his side and trace the rough eye motif with one broad callused hand. A hand that had clearly done some work. 

“What is it with all the eyes?” Martin's voice had a sort of whispered curiosity to it that Jon could appreciate.

“I’m not sure about that,” Jon’s brow creased as he thought, “Elias once told me that the patron of the place liked them, which I assumed meant whoever funded the building. But I was looking into it and Lucases and the Fairchilds have always funded the institute, and…”

“Neither of them have a history of eye decor?” Martin supplied, gripping the handle (presumably because it was not covered in dozens of eyes), and pushing it open. The stale sent of disuse wafted out from the cramped hallway where four doors and a dusty grey carpet sat stagnant. 

“You researched before you came?” Jon was actually impressed, and he made no attempt to hide it from his voice. 

“I did the best I could, but that was more of a semi educated guess. It um… Seemed to be where you were going” he chuckled with a hint of nervousness, and the smile that crept onto his voice seemed a little bit different from what it was before. “So… Do we know which one my room is?” he asked, and gestured to the four doors. 

“I think the one on the far left is a staircase down to the kitchen- there's another entrance to the kitchen downstairs too in about the same place, and i’ve seen the stars right next to it… so the other three must be bedrooms right?” Jon placed his hand on the door to the far right and rattled the handle a bit. It was locked. Jon coughed and took a step back.

“Maybe not that one.” Martin poorly disguised a chuckle as he pushed open the door to a cramped looking room. After only one look at it Jon felt bad, the room had barely enough space for them both to stand up in it, after the wardrobe that barely seemed to be holding together, metal framed bed, small desk (which looked as if it was taken out of a severely underfunded school) and squat bookshelf were taken into consideration. The bed was made, with thin blankets and flat pillows. Somehow the threadbare carpets puffed up with far too much dust to be logically hidden within them, and the sickly yellow paint chipped to show even more sickly off-white paint that was hidden beneath it. He was about to say something when he noticed the look on martin's face.

Martin was smiling as he traced his fingers along the grotesque eyeball trim around the middle of the room. Jon had seen the look on his face before.

_ Tim traces his fingertips across the cracked leather binding of the near ancient book. His nails are bitten, and a couple of days ago he painted them black, so today they are chipping. There is a smile that has creeped onto his face, and a soft shine in his eye. He takes the book from the shelf, more carefully than he pretty much does anything else (at least anything that Jon has seen him do). He flips the book open and traces the letters on the yellowing pages. His ear twitches a little as he breathes in the beautiful scent of an ages old book. Tim walks away with the book, and makes the almost 7 minute walk into the little office that he had claimed in the very back corners of the archives. He takes his time, devoting almost every evening to the volume, and three weeks and two days later the volume is back on the shelf, its cover replaced and now soft subtle leather. _

Tim’s smile was different to Martin’s, Tim got a crinkle just under his eyes and Martin got dimples, but it was similar. It was ultimately a love for something that led to a desire to fix it. Jon could understand it with the books, but he couldn’t begin to fathom it with the dingy old room and its flickering light that desperately needed a top up of the sort of magic that kept the lights going. He supposed he could ask, but that means admitting he noticed it in the first place. And he was not going to do that.

“I don’t suppose Elias- Mr Bouchard would mind if i repainted the room?” Martin said, turning to look properly at Jon “it said in my contract I have Sunday after 12 off, so I could go down to the town and grab some stuff to redecorate?"

“I don’t think he would. Me, Sasha and Tim normally go down on Sundays for lunch at the local café” Jon paused for a second, realizing he had invited Martin to the one time a week the archival staff would  _ relax,  _ the one point where they would actually have time together as friends like they did before they got transferred to the archives. For about half a second he wondered if Sasha and Tim would mind, but one look at the grin on Martin’s face convinced him otherwise. Jon knew that for once he had done something that the others, especially Tim, would actually approve of him doing. 

“That would be excellent, Jon!” Martin slung a remarkably light looking suitcase onto the bed. “I’ll unpack after the grand tour- do you know if… maybe there’s any better blankets and stuff for the bed? If that wouldn’t be a problem.” His hands traced along the throw, and a small frown settled onto his face when his thumb caught on a hole. Jon thought he seemed oddly nervous about asking for something that was so simple, but decided against commenting on that.

“I’m sure we can find you something” He nodded as he thought- he was sure that there would be some spares somewhere. They probably wouldn’t be able to smuggle the thick, weighty blankets that he knew were in the guest rooms and Elias’ chamber, even if that was the thought that instantly came into his head. He knew that there were some extras of the type that him and his assistants had, and while they weren't as good as the really nice ones, they were perfectly serviceable, much more so than the thing that currently laid on the bed. 

Remembering the dim bulb Jon cupped his hands together, gathering light within his bony hands and slender fingers, before pouring them into the small storage battery next to the light. Of course they had replacement batteries so that didn't need to be done almost every time a bulb went, but with the amount of magic users in the place he didn't think that they had been used for a very long time now. He supposed that replacing the lights would probably be Martin's job now, and he idly wondered what type of magic Martin did, while he waited for the light to come on. It flickered for a second, and then brightened. It was still dimmer than it technically should have been, but most of the bulbs in the place were.

He looked down from the light, and noticed Martin looking at him with wide eyed fascination.

“You can do magic?” Martin asked, his eyes now flickering between Jon and the newly refilled lightbulb. Jon had forgotten that not all people could, so isolated to his small collection of coworker-freinds, all of whom could do magic to some degree or another. “Where did you learn? Did you do anything like- really fun with it before you came here” An excitement and obvious curiosity coloured his voice. Well, that was his answer. Martin couldn’t do any magic. It somehow came as a surprise to him, despite the now rather obvious fact that the role of housekeeper didn’t really require any particular arcane knowledge.

“Yes. I attended the  Oxanforda Arcane Academy, and then I came straight here. No great adventures to tell of really” Jon said, without any great enthusiasm. He had been asked these sorts of questions before, and he practically had a script for answering them, (despite the years he had gone without a non magical person to ask these predictable questions of him).

Jon’s nearly robotic answer only seemed to dampen Martin’s enthusiasm a small amount, though the question that followed was admittedly more practical than whimsical or personally digging into Jon’s past, as he might have expected. 

“How do you… turn them off?”

“The magic or the lights?”

“The magic. No, the lights Jon!” Martin said, with the sort of dry sarcasm that Jon had not really expected of him

That elicited an exasperated and yet friendly sort of huff. “Yeah yeah, one second” 

He looked around for a moment, and then clicked a button on a small trinket that was placed on the desk, right next to the bed. It wasn’t shaped like an eye- most of the light switches in the place were, and they were also affixed to the walls. From what Jon knew, it was a more recent development to have them on the wall and linked to many lights rather than one hefty trinket linked to one light. He guessed that this room really must not have been changed for a long time. This switch was a carved wooden lighthouse, with the base depicting thick smoke and painted slightly off white. The top of the lighthouse glowed a pale amber, even when the main light was turned off, presumably so that you could see where it was even in the dark. 

“Oh- that really is just wonderful,” Martin muttered, though it was seemingly more to himself than it was to Jon. He could feel Martins smile, even though he could barely see it through the dimness of the late evening. What time was it now- almost 8:00 probably, and Jon was well aware of the imposed 11:30 pm lights out, and he really needed to get this tour done now he had offered. Jon opened the door, and gestured for Martin to exit. 

“What do you say that we get on with the tour?”

* * *

The rest of the tour went quite uneventfully, at least in Jons opinion. They visited all the most important spots in the place, or at least the ones that it would be most convenient for Martin to know how to get to. The kitchen was an obvious first spot, then the storage cellar, pantry, and then the room that housed all the cleaning supplies. Jon trusted that Martin could find his way around those rooms, so they spent no more than 5 minutes in each. They simply popped their heads in, had a quick look around and then left. Next they passed by the library, and the archives, the offices clustered between and around the two, and the rooms where the archival staff slept. Jon decided not to show Martin inside those, not wanting to disturb Tim and Sasha and knowing that it wasn’t Martin’s job to actually clean the archives. He had offered to give Martin a tour around the library, but Martin had declined because he didn’t want to get distracted with the library and had to cut the tour short. They walked down long corridors full of guest rooms that were barely used, revisited the door of the parlour, and cut through several large dining rooms to get to a ballroom nestled in the near center of the manor. 

Last was Elias’ living quarters; his office, his bedroom, and the smoking room that he received guests in. Jon had advised them not to go into the office, and outright refused to entertain the idea of them going into the bedroom. They visited the smoking room, and Martin spent what Jon considered a very uncomfortable amount of time staring at the tapestry that was hung across the one wall that had no doors or windows. Jon had remembered how fascinated he had been when he had first seen the thing, so didn’t say anything to make Martin move. The tapestry was unsettlingly beautiful, and depicted a many eyed monster that was obscured by smoke- or fog- that surrounded and encased it. The eyes were many coloured, and far too real for Jon to be entirely comfortable with it. Well, some of the eyes were far to real, the others were dull and grey, flat and blended into the tapestry as if they were actually meant to be there, unlike the eyes that were green or blue, or the one pair which was at Jon's eye level, that shimmered a beautiful, unsettling hazel. 

Jon thought that Martin would have many questions about it, (he had seemed to be a rather curious man), and even if Jon had no answers he would be more than happy enough to make some educated guesses. However Martin had made no attempt to ask anything, and had actually stayed almost silent as they made their way back to the kitchen. Jon didn't know if he should be worried. That thought shocked Jon somewhat- he didn’t even know enough about Martin to know if he should be worried about the quiet, and he definitely wasn't close enough to feel the need to be worried. So he also stayed quiet until he pushed the door open to the kitchens.

“Boss man! Mart-o!” Tim shouted a far too cheesy greeting and waved at them from where he was sitting, straddling one of the chairs that surrounded the small dining table in the center of the kitchen.

“Tim” Jon said in warning and sat on the chair furthest from him. He sighed in exasperation, he had told Tim not to call him that. He didn't really have the heart to scold him properly, though. when he heard the way that the nickname elicited a poorly hidden laugh from Martin. He pretended he wasn’t watching as Martin went through the automatic movements of lighting the stove and placing the old kettle on it to boil. It was an easy rhythm when he took down three mugs and rinsed them, and placed them down on the counter and shuffled to the coolbox to get some milk. 

He definitely pretended not to notice as Tim raised an eyebrow and mouthed an accusatory  _ “boss?”  _ once Martin was out of sight, probably in the pantry.

“How do you like your tea?” Martin stumbled back into the room, thankfully stopping Tim’s forthcoming teasing-interrogation combo. His arms were weighed down with a heavy bag of sugar, a jar of honey, a jumble of lemons (which were barely on the cusp of usability) and several different containers of tea.

“I don’t really know” Jon shrugged as he stood up to help place some of the items on the side, to which Tim gave a smug smile and a not so subtle wiggle of the eyebrows. 

“How do you not know what tea you like to drink!” Martin laughed, and studied Jon for a moment, before taking a glance back to the tea “i’m going to make you a nice strong earl gray, with just a little milk.”

Jon nodded, not knowing what that actually was, past the fact that he knew that it was a type of black tea, he thought. Sasha was normally the person who made the hot drinks. Jon was sure that she preferred coffee, but when she actually drank tea, it smelled strongly of mint, and seemed very sweet. Wherever she served him tea it was something black and sweet, and Jon didn’t like it all that much. He didn't even think that he liked tea, but somehow he couldn’t find it in his heart to actually tell Martin that.

“Chamomile for me, Marty boy” Tim called, raising to his feet and going to the counter where the other two stood. Despite Martin’s height he loomed over both of them in all his lanky glory. He was still wearing that garish shirt, though now the first few buttons were undone as if he needed to make it any more casual. 

“Will Sasha be joining us? What about Daisy or Basira?” Martin glanced at the cupboard, seemingly considering taking down a few more mugs in case the others decided to join them.

Jon shrugged as he glanced over the sheer amount of teas that they had and he had never known about “Basira and Daisy are normally on patrol at this time of night. Tim? You should know where Sasha is, correct?” Tim's earlier teasingly accusational tone was ( in an almost perfect imitation) playfully batted back to him as Jon raised his eyebrow. Out of an uncharacteristic discrete politeness, he pretended not to know the… arrangement, that Tim and Sasha had, but he definitely was not above some degree of teasing.

Once Tim had recovered from the small coughing fit he had set into, his face was fairly red (instead of it’s normal level of red; dusty pink). “Sasha? Oh I think I saw her about a couple of hours ago, when you whipped Martin off for the grand tour. I think she decided to finish translating that statement that we got in draconic” 

Martin seemed somewhat disappointed, and Jon understood. He wasn’t the best company, and he knew that. He also had the idea that the tall man before him with the musical laugh, contagious smile and what seemed to be a habitual need to make tea, was probably more social and almost certainly more freindly than Jon had ever been, or would ever be. It must be strange to be stuck in a place with such a limited amount of people to talk to, though there was a sneaking suspicion in the back of his mind that no one who enjoyed socialising that much would come to work in a place like this. There was also the village which was fairly close by, so if Martin really needed to make more friends then maybe he could just go there. Jon tried not to feel too bad for him. 

A cup of tea was placed into his hand, which cut his thinking short. It smelled strong and a little bitter, with none of the almost sickly sweetness the drinks he would force himself to gulp down normally possessed. Following Tim's lead, he sat back down at the table, allowing the warmth of the cup to sluggishly flow through him. He realized at that moment had never quite gotten used to the permanent chill that filled the place, but he didn’t worry too much, feeling that this room-  _ Martin’s kitchen-  _ would become somewhat an exception to the rule. 

“So…” Martin joined them, sipping a drink that looked just as strong as the cup of tea nestled in Jon’s hands, but smelled a little sweeter. 

Jon took a sip of his tea, waiting for Martin to say what he needed to say. The tea was nice, he decided that he liked the way Martin made tea. It filled him with a humming warmth. Jon and tim shared a look, the two of them having an inclination of the question that Martin clearly desperately wanted to ask but was too polite to say.

After the moment of silence, Jon coughed and spoke up, “You want to know what the deal is with Elias and Captain Lucas, I assume?”

Martin nodded, and a flash of relief crossed his face. Jon had been right in his prediction that Martin had obviously wanted to say something about it, but couldn’t quite ask directly.

“Well…” Jon was never quite sure what to say about those two. He could tell that they didn’t exactly love each other, not in the traditional way a couple would, despite what the heavy expensive engagement ring that Elias wore seemed to say. But he really wasn’t convinced that Elias was marrying him just for the Lucas fortune though, even if that certainly had some part to play in the situation. There was some form of affection that passed between those two, even if it was rare and concealed behind icy glances of grey eyes and a twitch of a smile under a beard.

“Elias is basically a professional sugar baby” Tim supplied, probably noticing from Jon's expression how much he was struggling to give any sort of honest answer. “The lucas are a wealthy family. Apparently they made a bunch of money from fishing back in the day,” he took a long sip of his drink, as if to punctuate the thought. “And I am absolutely convinced that Elias is only marrying him for the money and now i think about it, also probably the-”

“Alright, alright! That's enough!” Jon sputtered, and tried to regain his composure as best as he could after the supremely unhelpful thought that Tim had forcefully implanted into his poor mind. Tim laughed, and so did Martin. Jon hid the smile that slowly settled onto his face by taking another drink of his tea.

“Sorry Johnny boy” Tim placed a hand on his shoulder, in some sort of half mocking attempt at consoling him. 

After a few moments of companionable quiet, Jon resolved to speak. “Thank you for the tea Martin, but it’s getting late and I was wanting to finish recording the statement that I started when Elias pulled me away for your introduction. And I am no exception to the lights out rule.” it was almost an effort to get the words out, which was a problem Jon had never had. He normally had no problem with getting some late night work done, and today should have been absolutely no different. He drained the rest of his tea and stood. It was then Jon had remembered Martin’s earlier request. “Oh, and Tim? Could you try and grab some blankets for Martin from the spare rooms?”

“Sure boss!” him saluted, and almost jumped to his feet. “Ready to go Martin?”

“Oh! Just one second, let me make you another cup for the office” Martin said, not giving Jon a chance to actually accept before he took the cup away and began to refill it. Not that, he realized, Jon would actually say no to that offer. “As a thankyou for the tour, and the blankets of course.” 

Martin's smile warmed the cold of the room almost as much as the cup of tea that he handed over.

* * *

_ “...pass back out through the wooden gates that I stopped, remembering that, even if Ivan had fled like me, my father was still in this terrible place. I resolved to rescue him, and turned back towards the main tent. Light spilled out of the open entrance, as the steam organ kept playing.” _

Normally, the statements flowed from Jon, pulled from him. Akin to how a clown pulls seemingly infinite rainbow handkerchiefs from his pocket. Though in that metaphor he would be the sleeve, the statements would be the handkerchief, and he really didn’t want to think about who or what the clown was. Still, the statements had a tendency to just pool out of him. He had almost no problem with reading out tough statements. Including the real ones.  _ Especially  _ the real ones. And Jon was sure that this was one of the real ones, it flowed from him like they always did. The light wirr of the recorder encouraged him to carry on, and the pulsing magic that lit up the thing and bound the sound to the object implored him not to stop. This was an important case, he could feel it in the way that it made the hairs rise on the back of his neck as if someone was watching him. It was another statement to add to the growing pile that he had about the circus.  _ And that was important.  _ He was too proud to admit that he was distracted, and so again began to speak.

_ “Light spilled out of the open entrance, as the steam organ kept playing. I entered to see two clowns fighting. Not the slapstick routines of the clowns I’d been… ” _

He sighed again. He paused the recording. He tried to make himself focus. He took a deep breath. He closed his eyes. He saw Martin’s smile.

Tonight was going to be a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The statement Jon is reading at the end is Mag 44; Tightrope.  
> Did yall know that Oxford comes from Oxanforda, meaning a shallow part of a river or stream that cattle (oxen) can safely pass through?


	3. Mr Spider and Ms Werewolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Give it a smacky smack-!” A voice cried, high and piercing. Was that jon..?  
> “Boss-” that was clearly tim  
> “Please Tim! A smashy smash-” the voice broke.  
> Sasha laughed, and Martin heard a panicked scream.  
> “SASHA- TIM- GIVE THE BLOODY THING A WACKY WACK”  
> Martin pushed open the door. He wasn’t exactly panicked, because it was only Jon who seemed to be alarmed in any sort of way. And the scene before him didn’t make him any more alarmed.  
> There was a spider.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw for spiders- but not the particularly spooky kind

Martin woke as the first hints of sunlight filtered through his uncovered window. He yawned softly, the weight of the blankets smothering him in a protective warmth against the chilling early morning air. Shuffling to be comfortable he thought about last evening.

_ He had pressed a fresh cup of tea into Jon's hands as he excused himself to do some work. His brain was almost set alight when he touched Jons hand… And then life just seemed to carry on. _

_ He and Tim had managed to grab a few blankets from the spare rooms. These rooms had been empty for many years it seemed, the dust thick and untouched, Tim had seemed to think that they used to be in use back when the institute was filled with researchers, librarians and archival staff. The blankets were still excellent, or atleast much better than the ratty old thing that Martin had been provided with. The covers were various shades of green, and had a small eye stitched in each corner. Martin was very unsettled by that, and he had spent a while unpicking the design once he had gone back to his room. They were quite hefty and also soft, giving him a lovely feeling of closeness and were just delightfully warm. Tim had given him the low down on gossip, which honestly there wasn’t much of. It basically surmised to two points; Daisy and Basira are a couple (though they were very much not the type for PDA), and Tim was a self proclaimed ‘Thot King’. _

_ He had not told Martin what the deal was between him and Sasha, and Martin didn’t want to be rude and ask. _

Coming back to the present, he regretfully pushed the blankets off of him and braced as the cold hit him, even through his thick nightclothes. Shivering, he stood and shuffled on his slippers. Martin never left a bed unmade if he could help it, and today was the same. He did it quickly too, as the cold was beginning to make him feel slightly numb. It was only when he had put the pillow back where it should have been, rather than at approximately cuddle height, that he saw the neatly folded piece of paper on his desk. It appeared to be placed on top of some new clothes, just as neatly folded as the paper. Martin could have sworn that he had not seen them the night before, and the desk had only been stocked with his notebook and a small bottle of ink and quill he had taken from the stockroom on the blanket raid.

He shuddered at the thought of Mr Bouchard coming into his room, and tried hard to dismiss the thought. Martin knew he was a very light sleeper, he had to be with his mothers health and everything. He would have known if Mr Bouchard had snuck into his room. Everything must have been here the night before, and Martin must have just not noticed, it was the only option that made any sense.

After (through some effort) he pushed those thoughts out of his head, he took about 3 steps to the wardrobe, and leaned down and plucked his thick compressor vest from the floor next to it. On cold days like these, he felt somewhat grateful for the thing. Past its ordinary functions of compressing and changing his figure to something he desired much more, it also was very warm. Most of the time far too warm, but in this situation it was perfect. He wriggled into it, and then put on the clothes provided. The trousers were thick, dark brown and a little rough. As was the shirt, but instead of being brown it was a slightly off white. A thick woollen jumper was provided too, the same style as the one that he normally wore, and a bright orange woollen jumper. Everything seemed so much better made than what he had brought.

It was only at this realization that he had the idea to check the main part of the wardrobe. When he pulled open the doors he found it filled to the brim with identical copies of the practical shirt and trousers, along a practical rainbow of woollen jumpers and sweater vests. Alongside his cloak that he brought (which seemed to be the only piece of his own clothing that remained), was a deep green riding cloak with a hood. There was a set of formal clothes. Not quite a suit though, he supposed Mr Bouchard didn’t want anyone to think of him as something important. There was a shirt which seemed to be made out of silk, or something equally as unnecessarily expensive and soft, and some black cotton trousers. There was even a  _ waistcoat.  _ Martin didn't think he had ever owned one of them. He double checked the draw he was planning to stash his compressor vest in, and realized that there were several new ones in there, different weights and such. He glanced over by the door, and next to his tough leather boots were a pair of shiny black shoes, and a pair that was more formal looking, white and black. It was amazing.

And deeply disturbed him.

It had definitely not been like this before. He had packed his clothes away just before he had fallen to sleep. This meant that someone had snuck in and put clothes in his room.  _ Clothes that were just his size and style _ . He knew he was a light sleeper, and Mr Bouchard was not a light step. Maybe it was Tim. Martin had told him about his light packing, but they had made a plan to go down to the village the next Sunday. When Martin had told him Jon had already invited him for lunch, Martin was definitely not expecting a raised eyebrow and a poorly stoppered laugh. Why would Tim do this if they already had a plan? They definitely weren't the same size, (and absolutely didn’t have the same style) so how would Tim even have these clothes? Martin resolved just to ask next time he saw him.

He hoped it was Tim.

It only took a moment or so for Martin to compose himself, it was strange for sure, but not dangerous (in fact it seemed like a gesture of good will). Martin was oddly proud of the fact that he kept his panic attacks short and concise. In fact, when he glanced out of the window the sun hadn't changed its position in the sky, so the whole thing couldn’t have been any more than a few minutes.

He decided that it was time to get to work. The paper lay almost forgotten on the desk, slightly crumpled now from being tossed around, and so Martin picked it up. He took a second before he opened it, half berating himself for being so nervous. Mr Bouchard had already told him that he would drop his duties off for him, so he knew that's what they would be. And they were. The words were in the cramped hand that Martin recognized as Mr Bouchard’s, from their previous correspondence and his employment contract.

_ ‘Mr Blackwood, please review your duties bellow; _

_ Concerning meal times you must; _

  * _Supply breakfast, lunch and afternoon meals to me. Unless Captain Lucas is here, or you are otherwise noted, I will take this in my study. If Captain Lucas is here, place the tray down outside the bedroom and I'll collect it._


  * Supply breakfast, lunch and afternoon meals to the other staff. They will take it in the kitchens with you, one of the guards will take the meal to the other whom is on duty


  * Meals will be provided at 7am, 1pm and 6pm. I have left a watch for you in the pocket of your apron



_ Concerning cleaning you must; _

  * _Clean any rooms that are regularly used every day_


  * Clean the other rooms twice a week



_ There are deliveries twice a week of food from the village. _

_ You have every Sunday after 12pm off. Me and Captain Lucas take our afternoon meals outside of the manor at that time. _

_ -E, Bouchard’ _

He looked over the paper a couple of times. He was really expecting more in detail instructions, because Mr Bouchard had seemed such a meticulous man. Really, he half thought that he would write down meal plans and menus, maybe a daily schedule, and all sorts of things. But, he supposed it wasn’t the worst thing to be given a bit of control over when and how he operated. It also went some way to confirming his suspicions that Mr Bouchard wasn’t the one who sneak into his room, because there was no apron, and no watch in here. There was no reason that he couldn’t just drop those with the other clothes.

Martin slipped the paper into his trouser pocket, before taking a quick glance outside. And then he took a moment to ponder about the fact that he was about to get a  _ watch of his own.  _ They were magical trinkets that told the time, looking like shrunken versions of the huge clocks that had just begun to be built on the churches of the bigger villages. They kind of amazed him, he didn’t know how such a large mechanism could be shrunk to something so small. And he was going to own one. He also wouldn’t have to make rough and semi-inaccurate guesses about what the time was based on the position of the sun. Which he did, supposing the time was sometime after 6 and therefore absolutely time for him to get to work.

He slipped on the new black shoes, unsurprisingly a perfect fit. It only took him a couple of minutes to get down the stairs that landed in the kitchen. He looked around, and it was the exact same as it was last night, apart from the apron that hung on a hook by the stove. He put it on, wrapping the strings to the front and tying it into a tight bow. He scooped out the watch- it was a heavy thing, with an already slightly worn leather strap. And it read the time 6:13, plenty of time for him to put together a filling breakfast. He could have a proper snoop around the kitchen after, if he had time. 

He walked over to the cool box, grabbing some eggs that he had seen, butter to cook them in and the milk for the tea. He placed them on the side, grabbing a pan and placing it on the stove. Now… he just had to figure out now the oven here worked. The one at home was a traditional firewood thing, but he suspected a house like this would be one of the new fangled ones, where you just had to press a lighted match to a marked spot and-

A fire crackled under the pan, small but very hot. Martin slid a bit of butter into the pan, and it began to melt and crackle a little with the heat. Whilst the butter melted he put the kettle on to boil. He checked that the butter had melted and heated to the right temperature and then cracked some eggs in. At first he put two in for Mr Bouchard and two for Captain Lucas, and then he doubled the amount for the Captain. Whilst the eggs sizzled gently in the pan, he made his way to the pantry and grabbed two loaves of bread. They seemed tough when he began to cut them into thick slices, and he knew he had to make some of his own. His baking had always been a point of pride, it was one of the few things that even his mother complimented him on. He put generous lashings of butter on each slice. When the kettle began to whistle he made a small pot of tea and picked the best mugs out, and the best little milk pitcher that they had. He plated the meal and put it to the side for a moment.

He cut the rest of the bread into slices and buttered them, making a pot of tea in case the others arrived for breakfast before he got back. And then, he made his way out of the kitchen to do his morning delivery.

He didn’t even see them, just placed the tray on the floor, and made his way back to the kitchen.

When he reached the kitchen door once again, he heard some commotion from within. This entrance to the kitchen was thick and ornate, it might have been in the way of passing important people he supposed. And it did a rather good job at muffling the panicked shouts behind it.

“Give it a smacky smack-!” A voice cried, high and piercing. Was that jon..?

“Boss-” that was clearly tim

“Please  _ Tim!  _ A smashy smash-” the voice broke.

Sasha laughed, and Martin heard a panicked scream.

“SASHA- TIM-  _ GIVE THE BLOODY THING A WACKY WACK” _

Martin pushed open the door. He wasn’t exactly panicked, because it was only Jon who seemed to be alarmed in any sort of way. And the scene before him didn’t make him any more alarmed.

There was a spider.

A small, spindly black thing sat on the cool box. Jon was perched on the table, a clear look of blind panic on his ashen face. The crust of a slice of bread was clutched in one hand, and a rolled up newspaper in the other in a white knuckled grip. His ears were pointed down, almost flat to his head, and his brows were furrowed with his absolute terror. Sasha and Tim were sitting on the chairs around the table, it looked like they had been sat down to eat breakfast before Jon had leapt onto it and knocked their cups of tea flying. He looked strangely like a frightened cat.

“Jon, there will be no killing of spiders in my kitchen!” Martin announced, walking into the kitchen and approaching the cool box.

“But Martin-” Jon whined, reaching out his hand to stop Martin from approaching the spider.

Martin rolled his eyes and gently ushered the spider into one of his hands. It tickled a little when it scuttled over his hand. “Hello little mr spider-”

Jon practically yelped

“Jonathan Sims, there will be no killing spiders in my kitchen! They are harmless and help to stop the flys,” He smiled at the small spider in his hands and made his way over to the door. It led to a small garden of herbs interlaced with beautiful flowers, strangling weeds, and a small bench that was in surprisingly good condition. On the other side of one of the short brick walls, was a greenhouse that seemed to be in even worse condition than the garden, but it was definitely salvageable. The stables and fenced off horse yard was visible from this point, and it just made him grateful that he didn't have to actually muck them out. He dropped the spider into one row of herbs, it looked like it was rosemary. He made a mental note to get some and dry it when he could, make some nice rosemary tea. He had a small garden when he was at home, and it was a nice moment of respite when he tended to it. It was much less elaborately stocked than the one he had here though. When he got a moment to, he would try to tend to this one too, stop the plants from being so strangled by the weeds.

He stepped back into the kitchen and shut the door, noticing that there were no eye designs on the inside or outside. The kitchen really seemed as if it was a sanctuary from all the strange business that Martin felt everywhere else.

“Martin, you are Jon’s hero,” Tim laughed. He was wiping away the tea that Jon had knocked over. Jon, for his part, was sheepishly dabbing tea from his dark grey waistcoat. 

“Thank you, Martin.” he said, his voice a grumble of gratitude.

Martin smiled, turning away to make tea so that the others couldn’t see the dusting of pink that prickled up onto his cheek. “It's no problem, spiders don’t scare me. I find some of the bigger ones cute, if i'm being honest”

Jon made a slightly queasy noise of disapproval, which he silenced by taking a bite of the piece of bread he had been clutching in his right hand.

“I hope that the bread is okay, I can make some eggs if you want? I think i saw some bacon in there too-” Martin said, glancing down at the cooling pan that sat on the top of the stove.

“The bread is just fine, Martin.” Jon finished the slice he was eating, and went for another as if to prove a point.

“I don’t think that Jon has eaten breakfast since he became The Head Archivist” Sasha said, and Tim nodded his agreement with his mouth full of bread. 

“ _ Sasha”  _ Jon warned, but his tone wasn’t angry, it was both fond and embarrassed. Tim and Sasha laughed, and Martin walked quickly into the pantry to grab the tea. And then he realised that he forgot to ask anyone what tea they wanted. He was planning on making Jon a mug of the same as last time, but he assumed that Tim wouldn't want the chamomile that he had last night, and he didn’t know how Sasha liked her tea. He didn't even know if Sasha liked tea, but part of him thought that disliking tea was quite impossible.

“Tim, what tea do you want? Sasha, what about you?” Martin said, popping his head back out of the pantry.

“I prefer coffee” Sasha cheersed with her large mug of steaming black coffee. And then she took a sip of that seaming opaque concoction. 

“Whatever you're making Jon” Tim grinned and judged Jon, whose gaze snapped down and he started to focus on the table.

Martin nodded and came out of the room with the correct teas, and made the drinks with the same sort of gentle precision that he normally did. Though he wouldn’t say it, partially because he would never be asked about it, but he always felt like a cup of tea tasted better when someone poured love and care into it. So, that's what he did, as he made three cups of tea. 

“I was told that the others would be here, Basira and Daisy? Oh! And Rosie?” He took another three mugs out of the cupboard “if they're not coming maybe I could make a delivery?”

Tim and Sasha shared a look and a raised eyebrow. Jon coughed nervously and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. A moment of silence passed before Sasha opened her mouth to speak, saving Tim from having to break some awkward news for the second time in as many days. “So, Martin. Did you notice the phase of the moon last night?” Sasha questioned, obviously hinting at something that Martin didn’t quite see the shape of. The confused look on Martin's face probably told her that, because she continued to speak. “Miss Daisy had a bit of a late night last night”

“Ohh… Miss Daisy’s a..?”

“Yes. Daisy is a werewolf, Basira tends to take care of her when she involuntarily transforms” Jon said, in a voice that tried its best to convey  _ factuality,  _ and  _ reason,  _ and that  _ he totally wasn’t scared of the Dwarven Werewolf that prowled around the manor on the full moon.  _ “Rosie is a wear creature but she won't tell us exactly what, and i'm not inclined to push it”

“So Daisy and Rosie will be sleeping off a couple of killer lunar hangovers” Tim said, a soft and slightly uneasy laugh eeking out of him. “And Basira will be looking after them probably, I think she worries”

“Well, it's only normal to do so, especially when-” Jon was cut off by a low whining sound that began to come out of his watch. “I'm sorry to cut the conversation short, but duty calls”

Martin nodded,“You will be coming back for lunch?” he mumbled, not really trying to hide his disappointment at everyone having to leave. He understood of course, Jon had to work. Tim and Sasha too! But he wasn’t exactly thrilled about going back to being left alone to rattle around the almost empty place. 

“Hell yeah marto!” Tim said, pulling him into a sudden and firm hug. “And i'm going to have to insist that we me and jon take those cups of tea to go” He let Martin go, before Martin could actually react, and grabbed both cups firmly. 

“Uh- Yes, what Tim said” Jon brushed down his clothes. The suit that he wore wasn’t quite as nice as the one he had on the night before, though it was a suit all the same. If it was a uniform, then it was one that the others blatantly ignored, especially Tim. And presumably one that was only for the archives staff, since Martin seemed to be exempt from it. He tried not to think too much about it.

“And it might be a good idea to take a nice cup of tea to Basira,” Sasha mumbled to Martin as the three of them filed out of the kitchen, “I can't believe no one actually suggested that earlier”

* * *

.

It was almost 12:00 (by Martin’s watch) when he finally knocked on the door to the guard house. He had done some basic cleaning of the kitchens and a quick dust of the offices that seemed to be in use, though he hadn’t worked up the courage to do Mr Bouchard's quarters or any of the bedrooms. He spent a bit in the garden too, he had spotted something in there when he dropped off Mr spider, and when he thought about his mission to deliver tea to Basira and Daisy he had remembered it. He knew it was vital to the expedition. Collecting it had taken way longer than he had hoped it would, and combined with the almost 15 minute walk across the grounds to get to the guardpost, it was closer to lunch than he had really wanted it to be. Though he thought he had more than made up for it with the bulging picnic basket and tea making supplies he had brought with him. 

Dragonborns cannot get bags under their eyes, but when Basira opened the door it looked like she was giving it a damn good go. She seemed exhausted, a book clutched in one hand and a blanket around her shoulders. It didn’t look like any of the other ones that he had seen around the manor, and it looked hand knitted. Did Basira knit? She didn’t seem the type. It could have been daisy but that seemed even more unlikely from what little Martin knew of her

“Hi, Martin.” She took in a hissing breath, and glanced quickly behind her, into a room that Martin couldn't see. From it came what sounded just a little bit too close to a growl to let Martin be entirely comfortable. “What do you need?” Her voice was dry and heavy, and seemed to convey that she was really not wanting visitors right now.

“I- I brought you tea” he said, trying to not be intimidated, because despite the aura of exhaustion that surrounded her like a thick fog, she was still very intimidating “well, sandwiches and the stuff to make tea, I thought you might have a little kitchen here.”

Basira stepped to the side. “We do,” she shut the door that she had glanced into, “and I think I can spare a couple of minutes to have a cup of tea, if you insist.” she smiled. The smile was soft and composed of a large amount of tired acceptance.

“I won't bother you for long” Martin looked around- the room was about the same size as the kitchen he worked in, and had a small kitchen, a little office space and a living space with an armchair and a tatty looking sofa. He walked over to the kitchen area, and set the kettle to boil. 

“I guess you have a lot of work to do, the house has been pretty much… well, a mess, since I started working here a few years ago.” She placed the book down on a small table next to the armchair, and then settled into the chair with a small sigh. Martin nodded, busying himself with making the tea.

“I'm sorry that i didn’t tell you about Daisy- that's why you came isn’t it? Because of-”

“Yes- well, because i thought you might need a good bit of caffeine to keep you awake.” Martin placed a cup of strong, sweet, black tea next to the book, being careful not to let any splash over. And then he picked something up that smelled much more herbal, but still sweet. “And in the garden there was some White mint, or…”

“Lunar mint?” Basira seemed to perk up a little bit at that, pushing the blanket off her shoulders and sitting up straighter

“The very same! I didn’t know if it was any more than a myth that it helped with lunar hang- I mean detransformations” Martin started making his way to the door, before he hesitated “do you want to take it in?”

Basira slapped her knees and she stood. “Let's go in together, I think I should explain to you how this works. I can tell you're scared, and there's no need to be. At Least if you're not as long as you stay inside on the full moon.” She smiled a smile that made Martin feel a little uncomfortable.

Martin sat down on the empty bed in the corner, whilst Basira sat on the double bed in the middle, placing the tea down on the old wooden bedside table that stood next to it. It looked like there were once 3 beds in this room, but two had been pushed together to make a double bed in the middle. The third, judging by the way that he sat between piles of clothes, was used mainly for putting laundry before they could be bothered to put it away. Martin could respect that. In the big bed in the corner, a sleeping figure laid under the sheets. It rose and fell with regular breaths and though Martin couldn't see who was under there, he was sure it was Daisy. Basira placed a hand softly on where the shoulder should have been.

“Jon mentioned something about an involuntary transition?” Martin focused the tie that he had picked up, tracing the patterns which were on its surface. Not eyes, just some dim grey swirls on a dark blue background that reminded Martin vaguely of fog or mist.

“Werecreatures can transform whenever they want to, but the closer that it gets to the full moon the harder it is to control. And the closer it gets to the new moon, the harder it is to transform at all. I really don’t get why people don’t just read up on this if they're curious” Basira explained, and she gestured to the book on the side as if she was illustrating a point and speaking as if she had to explain the same thing many times to many people. It was the same sort of voice that Jon had adapted when Martin had asked him about the magic that he used. To Martin, it seemed like he had been launched into a world of magic and yet to everyone it was just so normal. So normal, that his questions made them  _ bored.  _ He guessed that he understood, to them it must be similar to him having to explain how to butter bread. He didn’t want to bore anyone.

So he just nodded, and stood up. 

“I’ll have to get back i think, i need to clean the bedrooms and not to mention that I have to start making Mr Bouchard and Captain Lucas’ lunch- oh i brought you some sandwiches too, so you don’t have to come and get anything to eat until the evening”

“Thankyou Martin” Basira looked as if she was about to get up, before Daisy made a noise halfway between a growl and a whimper. Basira turned her attention back to Daisy and it was clear that he was going to have to make his own way out. 

“It's no problem Basira, see you later” .

* * *

Cold. The corridors were very cold, the same sort of cold that had embraced him when he had gotten out of bed that morning. Embrace wasn’t quite the correct word for it, he supposed, but he was too cold to actually think of anything better. He recognized the cold, it was the type that the fog left behind after it twisted around the village. Except there was no fog here, because he was inside. Inside an old drafty and frankly creepy building, holding a tray with two cups of tea and two baked potatoes for the two older men that were on the other end of this cold corridor.

The door looked far too small and far too far away. Especially since the door to the office was right next to him, and last time he walked this way the office door was only about thirty seconds away from the door to the bedroom. Martin couldn’t guess why Mr Bouchard would be in his bedroom at 12:49, and he generally didn’t want to. But he was just doing what he was told, and he continued to walk through the corridors that were far too cold. 

Until he bumped into something that was somehow both very firm and very soft, and spilled the tea on it. 

“Oh, Mr Blackwood” the thing said, which revealed himself to be Captain Lucas.

“Sh- I’m sorry Captain Lucas” Martin took a step back, and then stooped down to pick up the mess that he had made on the floor. Another pair of large, callused hands joined him.

“Please, call me Peter.” Captain Lucas, Peter, said placing the last bit of potato back on the plate

“I’ll go and get you a replacement- this was supposed to be your lunch. I don’t know how I missed you sir” Martin stood back up with the tray in his hand, and an apologetic smile on his face.

“Nonsense, i'll take Mr Bouchard out for lunch and you can get oriented. And I can be easy to miss, despite my size!” He laughed, and though it was a jolly sound it made Martin feel uncomfortable, colder somehow. “Say, boy, what about I take you out for a horse ride one evening, you're surely a good candidate!” Martin's brow crinkled in conclusion. He looked up from the tray he was holding to ask what he was a good candidate  _ for. _

__ But Captain Peter Lucas was gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I post this at almost 1 am (with very little editing) because Its Still Wednesday Somewhere (and I want to keep to a post schedule). No one knows. Also don't blame me for the smacky smack, looking at you Mars


	4. Lessons in magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I didn’t have to, it's obvious really, Timothy Stoker” His grin got even smugger, as he softly batted Tim's hand from his chest. “And plus, you don’t really think I'd expend so much energy trying to figure out if you have a crush on Sasha?”
> 
> “You totally would” Tim rolled his eyes, and then pushed open the door. 
> 
> “I totally would,” Jon agreed, and stepped inside. 
> 
> “You totally would what?” Martin added, placing two cups of tea onto the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for mentions of Jane Prentis and related incidents, and mention of the lonely and lonely related things. Let me know if I've missed anything!

A crackling crash whizzed past Jon's ear. He took his hand out of his pocket and held it out, fingers spread wide. Green crackling energy surrounded him, and shifted slightly as he turned on his heel to face his opponents. Chaotic energy crackled around Tim's hand, dampened by the black glove he wore. The thing that used to be Sasha bared its fangs and stretched out its large leathery wings ready to attack. He took a step forward, the hair that had fallen out of his braid floating up as he channelled his power into thickening the barrier. He imagined a door closing and locking, keeping himself in a different room to whatever attack might come next

Sasha leaped forwards, her wings beating against the air as she hurtled into Jon and his protective bubble. He grinned a rather wicked grin, and with a small flick of his wrist it encapsulated her, binding her to the floor. She raged against it, her claws slashing at the rippling green energy that surrounded her, but that thing would hold her for at least 15 seconds, 30 if Jon got really lucky.

“Oh that was a mistake, Boss” Tim's voice came from behind him, half dryly teasing and half out of breath. He felt another warm crackling bolt coming up and he split his thoughts into two distinct pieces, one to contain Sasha, and the other he focused on the bolt that was coming towards him with speed.

He contained the bolt in a bubble just long enough to stop its velocity, and balled up the bubble that was containing Sasha and throwing it at time, sending him stumbling back a little. Jon pressed a finger to his temple, and Knew that Tim would have to take at least a couple of seconds to be able to send another bolt out. But after that point Sasha would get out and would fly towards Jon, probably twisting into a new and more effective form mid jump. He felt the eyes open up on his hand then.

_ “Stop”  _ Jon said, his voice thick with a raw power that crawled its way from his stomach, up his throat and out of his mouth. They all stopped for a moment, lashes of thick green webbing springing out of the floor and wrapping themselves around the other two’s arms and legs. The sight of the webs made Jon's mouth go dry as he was forced to imagine huge, many eyed, crawling spiders making it their home. But Jon knew that they couldn’t do that, because it wasn't a real web, so spiders being on it wouldn't make any sense whatsoever.

Sasha twisted into the form of a wolf, making an attempt to get out with a bite and a scratch, but she couldn't get out of the webs sticky grasp. They struggled for a moment. He felt the familiar burning and bubbling on the back of his hand as he did that, as if the eyes that sat there were somehow allergic to the form. This was something that Jon had to concentrate on, it didn’t come as naturally as the shielding or knowing magic did, even if it felt so good to do it (if a little icky at the thought of potential magic spiders). 

Tim managed to get one arm out of the webs, and shot a bolt at Jon. Jon grinned as the bolt turned sour, rotted and fell apart into earthworms who burrowed into the floor of the patch of grass in which they trained. 

Pride bubbled up in him when he realised that he had done all the different components of magic that he could, stretched himself to the limit, and what more, they were still contained within the web. He had sustained the hardest element of his magic for almost 6 seconds, and he was confident that he could carry on going for a few more, if he was just focusing. That was until…

Until he saw Martin walking out of the kitchens and into that little Garden that was adjacent. He carried a rusty old watering can, and sung a tune that Jon had heard before, but never known the name of. For some reason, he desperately wanted to know the name of it, and the Knowing that still buzzed around him provided an answer.  _ Roll the old chariot.  _ It was a sea song, the type that sea folk sang when they were on a boat, to keep them entertained. Martin knelt within the plants, still singing quietly looking so tender and caring and-

Jon lost his concentration, knocked to the floor by the force of a wolf, and then blasted in the head by luke-warm fire. It probably wasn’t Martin himself, it was probably just the fact that he had accidentally Known something, and so his attention had gone to that rather than training.

He had lost! It was the first time he had lost in training for weeks, if not months. He was out of breath, scratched from falling down into what seemed to be a few stones in the grass, crushed under the weight of one of his colleagues who had transformed into a wolf, and he felt amazing. 

Truth be told, Jon loved training. He had taken off his jumper (after two days wearing suits he had, truth be told, ran out of suits), donned a pair of tight goggles to stop any stray magic from hurting his eyes, and a pair of hiking boots for good ankle support. On his hands he wore rather dainty silk gloves. Though Jon was quite good at controlling the intensity of his  _ combat- _ okay, he wouldn’t call it combat magic, it was more shielding magic. But still, even if he was good at controlling the intensity of it, it was still generally a good idea to wear dampening gloves to draw any potential lethality from it. And it helped to hide the eyes that he knew were now blinking and shifting on the back of his hand.

That was why Tim wore thick black leather gloves. To stop magic from being potentially lethal, not to hide eyes, as far as Jon knew. His magic tended to be more… reactive, channelling his feelings into power. His horns worked as some sort of channelling device, purifying feelings and converting them into whatever form of energy  _ seems appropriate _ , and so sparks flickered between them. When he was happy, sometimes bits of music leaked out from around his horns, and when he was sad cold leaked from him like his brain was made of ice. But when he was angry sparks would fly, and when he was passionate, that led to  _ fire.  _ So training with him was fun, a real challenge, and more than once led to more than a few small explosions. 

Sasha didn’t really have to dampen her powers, what with her main combat magic being transformation. She could do it all; Vampire, wolf, pseudo dragon, even herself but a little different (she had used that for a particularly cruel prank once). But Tim and Jon had insisted after an incident where they had gotten quite scratched up, that she wore specially fashioned shape changing padding around her claws. They were basically oven gloves.

“So boss!” Tim laughed, pulling both Jon and Sasha-the-human back onto their feet. “What happened! You looked like you were about to take us down with your creepy tentacle magic” he wiggled his eyebrows, leaning in closer.

“I let you win,” he said, obviously lying by the way his voice tilted upwards a little bit. He didn’t really bother to move his hand from Tim’s. It would be more effort than it was worth. “And plus, I saw something out of the corner of my eye that distracted me from my focus on beating your two asses”

Sasha laughed “You mean Martin?” she gestured to the garden, where Martin was currently talking to a bee that was buzzing around the hardy rose bush that grew on the closest wall to the small patch of grass where they trained. Martin looked up when he heard his name and waved. Jon's ears flicked when he saw him, and he waved back with a half sheepish grin

“The result would have been the same whether it was Martin or Elias or- whoever. And plus, I accidentally Knew something, so it threw me off” Jon turned back to Tim and Sasha, “Sasha, you were great. Maybe you should work on not telegraphing your moves. And you  _ know _ that if you would have changed into something larger you could have absolutely overpowered the both of us”

He smiled a small, fond, smile as Sasha gave him a salute and a “yes, sir!” with the overly padded oven mit still on her hand. She pulled them off and put them in her bag, “I still have that translation from Gnomish to get done, so I'm going to-” she gestured backwards with her thumbs, indicating that she was heading back to the mansion

“Alright Sasha,” Jon checked his watch. It was almost 1. “We will bring your lunch to you, if you want it?”

Sasha nodded, and with a jaunty wave to the two of them, she set off at a trot to the side door that led to the archives. Jon was never quite sure why this place had so many doors that lead outside, seemingly from each major zone of the house. Maybe it was so the servants, the house and the academics never actually had to mix? That was probably it, by the way Elias talked about ‘traditions’ etcetera, etcetera..

When he turned to grab the jumper he had thrown on the floor before the fight had started, he grinned with pride. They had all been doing a whole lot better at sparring. “Tim, let's talk as we walk” He tried to say, but it was muffled by the jumper. 

“What boss?” Tim stretched out. “I didn't hear you through all that wool you just shoved in your gob”. He had become shirtless in the time it took for Jon to put on another garment of clothing. Jon didn’t really blame him, it must be so warm with all of that fire just under the skin. He couldn’t help stare for a moment. “Hay jonny, are you checking me out?” Tim laughed, and spoke in a tone that made it seem like he already knew the answer.

“Of course not Stoker! You know I'd never be so unprofessional”

“Yeah i know boss” Tim winked, walking with his arms up and holding the back of his head “…it's the scars isn't it?” Tim puffed his chest out, making his scars even more obvious than they were before. Jons gaze lingered on a small circular mark of almost white against his light red skin. Flecks of darker red surrounded it, thick scar tissue that popped out of his skin. Even more obvious than it might be because his chest was hairless. He had many of them across his chest from the Prentis incident. Tim never seemed too concerned about trying to hide them, they almost blended into the other scars that covered literally every part of his body that Jon could see, and he guessed some that he couldn’t. He didn’t know how Tim got most of them and he never thought to ask. It seemed too personal, unprofessional. There were some that were good scars though, like the thin pink ones that were just below his pecks. Jon could never conceive of how Tim had such good pecks when he spent most of his time in the archives.

“Yeah.” Jon answered, putting his hands in his pockets. 

“You find scars hot?” Tim wiggled his eyebrows, leaning closer. He was towering over Jon, but that was absolutely no change. 

“Not on you” Jon said, his face straight and unimpressed. “Plus, you know I don’t really have a concept of,” he waves his hands, as he didn’t want to say the word ‘ _ hot _ ’. 

Tim laughed, raking a hand through his short hair. “Yeah, yeah. No concept of hot, what about Martin? He distracted you, nothing distracts you. It didn't even distract you when a horse escaped and Daisy and Basira came running and screaming after it. And using my professional deductive reasoning, that means you find Martin Hot”

“I do not find Martin Blackwood  _ hot! _ ” he said with almost a scowl. “He is… objectively handsome, I suppose. If you want to push it that far, I guess”

“If soft and defenceless is your type” Tim laughed, hopping the fence to the garden instead of using the gate that was just right there. Small mercies though, Martin seemed to have already gone inside. “And it seems to be.”

Jon pushed open the gate, rather pointedly, with a large squeak. He gave Tim a searing glare that meant this conversation was over, and then remembered the conversation that he was actually going to try and have with Tim on the way.

“Have you actually told sash-”

“Nope, we are not having this conversation!” Tim crossed his hands over his chest, pausing at the door of the kitchen. He leant on it so that Jon couldn’t get in. “Not if you wont talk about Marty boy. You won't even tell us about your ex, and you expect me to tell you about… y’know”

“The fact that you're learning magic to try and impress Sasha?” Jon said, feeling slightly smug, and absolutely not trying to conceal that one little bit.

“Hay! Boss, I told you not to do that magically looking into my head thing, it's creepy as shit” he warned, poking him in the chest with a sharp nail. It seemed like he had painted it green this time.

“I didn’t have to, it's obvious really, Timothy Stoker” His grin got even smugger, as he softly batted Tim's hand from his chest. “And plus, you don’t really think I'd expend so much energy trying to figure out if you have a crush on Sasha?”

“You totally would” Tim rolled his eyes, and then pushed open the door. 

“I totally would,” Jon agreed, and stepped inside. 

“You totally would what?” Martin added, placing two cups of tea onto the table.

“Look into my mind with his creepy magic and see if I had feelings for anyone. I felt him doing it earlier while we were training! Which is absolutely not fair” Tim sat backwards on the chair, his legs wrapping around the legs of the chair. He grabbed his cup of tea and took a big swig, not seeming to be at all bothered by how hot it seemed. Jon rolled his eyes, Tim was simply showing off to the human who didn't know about magic, and all tieflings were somewhat resistant to heat. Tim could withstand greater heat than the average tiefling too, especially when the fire of a battle still flowed through his veins.

“Jon can do that? He can read people's minds?” Martin said, glancing between the two of them. “And do you have feelings for anyone?“ Jon could swear that Martin’s face got pinker when he saw a shirtless Tim. Jon couldn’t fault him for that, Tim had that effect on a lot of people. Though it did feel good somehow to know that Martin seemed to like men…

Jon squashed that thought. It was simply that he knew something, and knowing things is a good thing. Nothing more and nothing less.

“All uses of non lethal magic are permitted in the training grounds, you know that Tim” Jon picked up his own cup of tea, feeling the warmth seep into him. He was glad of it, it was actually rather cold outside. A small fire crackled in the hearth here though, and it smelled like baking bread and the jam that bubbled in the jam pot. Martin turned to attend to that. “And yes Martin, i can see some basic thoughts that people have. It takes a lot out of me though, and I cant dig too deep. Both legally and physically”

“Oh, magic law! That is something I've… heard of.” Martin grinned, and then he turned away and started spooning the newly made jam into jars to cool down. “Anyway, I don’t want to bore you with all my magic questions, and it is lunchtime. Bacon sandwiches?”

Tim whooped, “hell yes! And I’ll take Sasha’s to her, she's doing some smart translation thingy.”

Sasha was absolutely not translating anything. All three of them could speak Gnomish, so there was no reason for her to translate it into common. Especially since they hadn’t been looking at any statements in Gnomish lately. It really was a code word for ‘I've used too much of my magical energy and I really need to have a nap’.

“Oh yeah” Jon nodded “that will probably be done by the end of lunch if were lucky, but it might take an extra hour or two if we’re not.”

“I know” Martin smiled, and when he saw the confused looks on their faces he explained “I only saw you too coming up the path, and Sasha went the way that leads into the archives so I assumed… anyway, that’s why I only made you two tea and didn’t make her a coffee. Though i didn't know she was translating anything. She's smart though so I should have guessed that she-”

“You know about the archives door?” Jon was impressed, even though it wasn't exactly obvious in the way that he interrupted Martin. The outside archives door was kind of a not so secret-secret entrance, a wooden door which was rather securely illusioned to look like the brick exterior of the building. “That has an illusion on it. I didn’t show you it on the tour, so how did you find it?”

“Oh- someone must have told me about it. And the other passageways too, quite convenient really” It was the sort of sentence that seemed as if it should have been punctuated with a shrug, and it probably would have been if Martin wasn’t cutting up a delicious smelling loaf of bread into slices. “There seems to be passageways everywhere” It did explain it though. Even if it was a strong one, as with any illusion, once you were told it was there you could see through it. It was the same with all the illusioned shortcuts that littered the building. Jon didn’t think that even he knew all of them.

“Not surprising with a big old building like this” Tim grinned “you’ll have to show us at some point”

He accepted the sandwich that was put in front of him gratefully, and tried not to think about the topic too heavily. Maybe the passage ways were for the house's staff to get around quickly without disturbing the other members of the house.

That would make sense

* * *

That would make absolutely no sense.

Elias wouldn’t have told Martin about all the tunnels and doorways- in fact he couldn’t have done. He had been locked up in his office, and his bedroom office, for most of the time that Martin had been here so he  _ couldn’t have _ told Martin about the tunnels.

And plus, as much as he hated to admit it, the field of his Knowing was still open when he entered the kitchen and talked to Martin. And he could tell that Martin wasn’t shown the places, because Martin didn’t know how he knew about them. He wasn’t lying when he said someone must have told him about them. It was that fussy effect that happened when your brain tried to explain something impossible, or something that you just don't know about and make it make sense. Jon thought about Martin's caramel sweet eyes, and as he thought about them he realised that then seemed to see through the professional vail that Jon had attempted to put on when they had first met.

Which must mean that Martin...

Jon had to figure this out.

He unlocked the door to his private office at the back of the archives- he usually only used it for recording statements, he preferred to do his research in the library or his desk in the main part of the archives. As annoying as his assistants could be, with their bickering and play arguing, it was nice to have people around when reading through massive books of macabre history or scouring files about who was born and died 250 years ago to find someone who lived around that time, usually with a super generic name like ‘John Smith’. But not for this, he needed privacy for this.

His office was much larger than it needed to be, and very cold now that the embracing warmth of the kitchen had worn off. There were two armchairs at each side of a large window. Jon never looked out of the window before, because when he did it made him feel sick, like the floor was much farther down than it actually was. There was a desk too, organized in the Jon-way. Which meant it had several piles of statements littered across it in a way that only Jon understood (though Tim and Sasha were getting better at it now). He only sat at the desk when he was recording statements, so the box of pre-enchanted recorder rocks sat next to it.

He sat in the comfy, overly worn armchair that was in the left corner of the office, and took out the large book that he kept next to it.  _ An advanced history of magic theory.  _ He also plucked out the notebook he kept with it, with its crumpled and bent pages and the pencil that slotted neatly into the side.

He opened the notebook, rather than the informational textbook. Normally, his method when he had something big to investigate was to look over whatever he already knew, and then he usually got inspired as to what he actually had to find in the other books. Sometimes. Occasionally. He really hoped that it would work for this one.

There were certain things that anyone who had any idea about magic knew. Such as the 14 sources of magic. An academic had come up with it, a certain Dr Smirke who was quite popular in certain corners of the Dim Magic community. A lot of his work other than this was rejected by more general academics of magic theory, but these essentially stood as established fact. Though he had believed them old gods, and newer scholars thought them to be different parts of a magic user that they could unlock, and oftentimes what they could unlock was based on experiences. A certain type of magical Habitus, he had seen it described. Of course they bleed into each other a considerable amount, and certain types of magical ability like refilling the lights could come from any and all. But generally people considered there to be 14, and most people were proficient in one or two at the most. For instance Tim was well acquainted with the Senseless Burning, and how it turned your emotions into raw power. And Sasha derived power from The One That Is Not You, hence her ability to shapeshift. 

Jon was somewhat an exception from this rule. He could extend his powers to more than a couple, even if it did take a lot out of him. He had managed to do all four in the training before lunch. So, there were a few that Jon knew in a more than theoretical sense. He flipped to the place in his notebook where he had made notes on the types that he could actually use.

_ Observing Watcher- secrets. Why I can see potential moves in training. Divination?? What will come to pass, what might come to pass and what won't. Ongoing theory; everyone who works in the archives is touched by it in some way. Evidence? Easier to Know with the others who have already been connected- some sort of magic field? _

That one didn’t really help, though it did give him the idea that the Observing might give some people some sort of ability to see through illusions. He scribbled it down next to his notes on the observing. Maybe because Martin became a member of staff he got the ability to see through the illusions, but Martin had insisted he had no previous magical experience, and no one else had gotten that when they joined, which suggested it was a more advanced power. So that didn't really explain it.

_ The Enthralling Web- capturing people, some forms of shielding magic? Manipulation and control- mind control. Telling people to do simple things and then them doing it. _

Jon wasn’t quite sure when he started being able to do this. He could do it before he could channel the Observing watcher, which made him think that it was perhaps his earliest type of magic. It was also quite hard for him to use, perhaps because he didn’t really like the idea of manipulating people all that much. It was one thing to something like that in a training exercise, to get people to stop for a moment, because they could fight it. But the things he could do if he practiced, if he accepted it… it didn't bear thinking about. And it was nothing to do with how Martin could see the doors. Even if Martin did seem to have a rather… an affinity for spiders.

_ Corrupting Rot- turning magic into nothing. Magic rots? Worms? Jane prentis? illness? _

He had no doubt that this was nothing to do with Martin being able to see through the illusions. Unless he managed to convince the illusions to rot away, which while definitely possible would take a conscious effort. And Martin was not  _ lying  _ when he said that Elias had told him where everything was, Martin just didn't know the truth. Which was why Jon needed to find out.

He traced over the words ‘Jane Prentis’. That was quite honestly horrific. They had been doing research into some incidents surrounding her. It was a horrible thing- she was a horrible thing, all full of worms, so full of worms that they spilled from her and corrupted anything that they could touch, so full of worms that… Their current theory was that she had absorbed so much of the Corrupting Rot’s power that it had changed her, made her something other. At the time they had chalked it up to a warning about not using too much power. Tim was the one who destroyed her, his connection to the Senseless Burning meant that he was able to burn through the rot and the worms and save them all. That was after they had all been half eaten

After she had come, though, Jon had been able to use magic connected to the Corrupting Rot too. None of them fully knew how that worked. Sasha had suggested that it was a sort of magical fallout. So much energy needed a host, and maybe Jon was the closest, or the most receptive to it, and had gotten some extra power.

That theory was disproved when the crowned prince of Zemla Sannikova bit him at a ball, and he gained the powers of the One Who Twists.

_ The One Who Twists- lies and deceit. Certain forms of illusions. Zemla Sannikova doesn’t really exist, but Micheal wasn't directly lying?? Make an attack think it wont work. Secret tunnels and doors that were not there before _

No one had died when he was bitten, and yet he managed to start using a new type of magic. It was fairly fun to do as well. The trick was convincing the attack that there was something in the way. The books had called it ‘closing the door’, and people who had more power could open the door too, go to different places through passageways that never existed. They had been trying to work out how the power had transferred for a long time, at least as long as it took for the deep bite mark to turn into a scar.

Micheal, the crowned bring of Zemla Sannikova, always confused Jon. He had come to them to offer help with Prentis, and then when Elias had thrown a ball to celebrate her end, he just.. Bit Jon. Brought a confused young woman to the ball, who got lost in the corridors. Once Jon had found her (by going into a door he could have sworn wasn’t there before) Micheal had locked them in the room and bit him. Before dropping him off in Tim’s room so he could be patched up. That bite had needed 5 stitches.

He reread the small paragraph that he had on the One Who Twists. Illusions! That could explain it, if Martin was somehow subconsciously aligned with that type of magic then maybe he could see the doors! But if that was the case, if the doors were covered by an illusion drawn from The One Who Twists why couldn’t Jon see it when he could actively use that magic?

A spark fired in Jons brain, and he realised...

Because the doors weren’t illusioned, they were  _ shrouded _ . The lucases helped to build the house, which meant…

He threw his notebook onto the desk, and opened the giant book. It covered the entirety of his lap. The book was very old, hand written. Elias had given it to him, “from the personal collection of Jonah Magnus”. Not that Jon knew why. But as he flicked through the pages he did know what he was trying to find.

‘ _ They Who Stand Alone- this magic source attaches itself to people who do not have many connections to others. They can often disguise themselves, go into the shadows. If desired, they can hide objects. For example making doors blend in with the rest of the wall, but those who draw their power from They Who Stand Alone can see past it. They can often see past the illusions that other people try and put up. There is little evidence as to how they can do this, because unlike those who derive their magic from the source of the Observing Watcher they are not documented as normally having powers of observation. It is perhaps that…’ _

Jon grinned. ‘ _ Making doors blend in with the rest of the wall’ _ . Yes! The Lucas family traditionally took their magic from They Who Stand Alone, (or so the rumour went), which means that they must have hidden the passageways using that magic. That must mean that if Martin was subconsciously connected to They Who Stand Alone, he could see the passage ways.

The realisation that Martin was lonely spent a spike of pain into Jon’s chest. He didn’t want Martin to be alone. That much should be obvious, and even if Jon was mildly allergic to being a person with feelings, he didn’t want any of the people who he was close with to be lonely. He wouldn't let them. He would make an effort to actually talk to Martin more, and Tim and Sasha (and even Daisy and Basira) had taken quite a shine to him so wouldn’t actually let him be lonely... If Martin was not actively using his magic, then it should be no problem And plus, if he had seen the passage ways then they wouldn’t disappear if he got less lonely. A lot of people were connected to one of the sources of magical power without being able to actively use it, or even knowing that they were connected to anything. It was harmless, albeit a little bit strange that it was presenting so strongly and wasn’t actively unlocked.

Jon closed the book and placed it back into its slot next to the chair. He would have to tell Martin about this at dinner, maybe they could find him a teacher and they could actively unlock the magic? Infact, Jon thought as he stood up, he should tell Martin now before he got carried away with… well, whatever bullshit distracted him. Jon wouldn’t let him stay with They Who Stand Alone, obviously. Maybe they could figure out how to switch that power over to the Enthralling Web, or-

There was a gentle knock at the door, one that Jon recognized as Rosie’s

“Oh please Rosie, come in,” Jon stopped thinking as he opened the door to the halfling, who gave him the same polite, dimpled smile as always. He was half grateful that she helped him out of the spiral, and half annoyed that she distracted him from what he was doing. He should have really seen this coming. “I was just finishing up here”

“That won't be necessary Mr Sims, Mr Bouchard asked me to escort him up to the office” she said, and turned to leave. She was awfully good at navigating the maze of the archives to say that she never worked there.

Pushing all thoughts about helping Martin learn magic to the back of his head, Jon followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> l o r e. Also sorry folks from the server, no Mr Bouchard this chapter. I couldn't give you the satisfaction ;)


End file.
